


Untouchable

by grayseeker



Series: Ficlets [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death (foreshadowed), Character Study, Dirge being morbid, Foreboding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayseeker/pseuds/grayseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Dirge has no fondness for death. It is simply his gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untouchable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dark Star Of Chaos (DarkDecepticon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDecepticon/gifts).



> [The Beckoning Silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2542733/chapters/5652641) includes a brief mention of Dirge and Starscream being frag-buddies (for lack of a better term), so here's a little window into that relationship. It could be considered a side-story for the [Unbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/series/169448) series, in which case it would take place at some point prior to [Under His Wing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1921059/chapters/4145970), or it could be viewed as a standalone story. It may gain a second chapter as I move farther into writing the rest of the series, or just remain a one-shot; we'll see! Dedicated to [Dark Star of Chaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDecepticon/pseuds/Dark%20Star%20Of%20Chaos), who shares my appreciation for the Coneheads. :-)

Dirge moves his hand by slow degrees, reaching across the narrow gap that separates him from his berth companion. Starscream is by now deep in recharge, and barely twitches when Dirge's fingers curl around his wrist. He pauses there, watching the shadows of dreams chase across his commander's face, his arm tensed to withdraw at the slightest sign of awareness. He's crossing a line and he knows it, but this is the part he needs, even more than the sex.

When Starscream doesn't move, Dirge traces a small, cautious circle against the heel of his palm. He can feel Starscream's life there, the subtle flow of energy, and he follows it up along his forearm, his digit-pads lightly grazing the barrel of Starscream's null-ray rifle. 

Starscream is lying on his side with a wing tucked, his legs sprawled so that he's taking up more than half the berth. His arm is curled possessively around Dirge's roll-pillow, which he'd claimed for himself before collapsing into recharge, and every now and then, he gives a quiet, high-pitched snore. Dirge doesn't mind. He doesn't mind any of these things, nor the fact that Starscream sometimes kicks in his sleep, or even the fact that he never asks for permission to stay.

In a sense, he doesn't _have_ to ask, given the difference in their ranks, though Dirge suspects the real reason Starscream doesn't ask is because he _can't_. Asking would imply need. It would imply vulnerability, and possibly fear. Dirge wonders if these visits, which have been growing more frequent of late, have less to do with sexual release than they do with a desire on Starscream's part to avoid lying awake in his quarters all through the night-cycle, listening for a heavy tread in the corridor outside.

Dirge, like everyone else, pretends he doesn't know about that. There's nothing he can say that would make a difference, though he likes to imagine that these encounters offer some mutual benefit beyond the obvious. But it's not as if he has feelings. Not in the romantic sense, at least, though he knows that Starscream would assume otherwise if he were to unshutter his optics just now. But Dirge _has_ loved. He knows what it feels like, and he knows the emptiness and the taste of ashes that it leaves behind. That isn't what he feels for Starscream. If he were to put any name to it at all, he'd call it gratitude.

Starscream is the only one who will set pede inside Dirge's quarters, much less touch him. Even Dirge's trinemates keep their distance, as though they're afraid that his gift will bring about their doom. Starscream isn't like that. As a scientist, he has no use for what he considers superstitious nonsense, especially if it gets in the way of a good frag. And Starscream _is_ very good. He seems to consider that a point of pride, and knows just how to bring Dirge to his limits and keep him there, how to hit all the frozen, empty places inside and make them burn. When they're together, Dirge can forget that he's untouchable.

He pauses at Starscream's shoulder, debating whether to continue. There's a part of him that doesn't want to know, because contrary to popular belief, he has no fondness for death. It's simply his gift, and it compels him as surely as a breath of wind across his wings compels him into flight.

Starscream huffs, tucking the roll-pillow against his chest as if it's his lover, then settles. His faceplates relax, which makes him look oddly unguarded, almost innocent. It's an illusion, of course, though at times like this it's possible to imagine a time when Starscream _was_ younger, and possibly loved. That's one thing Dirge is reasonably certain about. It comes through when Starscream loses himself in the heat of their fragging and reaches blindly for Dirge's hand, as if there is something more between them than there is. At those times, his gaze remains fixed on a far distant point, another place and time, and Dirge is certain that it's not _his_ hand that Starscream is reaching for.

He traces down from Starscream's shoulder, keeping his touch light as he skates over the flat slope of Starscream's pectoral engine-casing to reach his spark. And there it is. For now, it's discernible only in moments like this, when Starscream's mind has quieted. It will become stronger over time, and the images clearer, and Dirge won't be able to touch him anymore without feeling it. This is how it begins, always.

He glimpses what looks like a wall of violet lightning and catches the faint, acrid stench of frying circuitry. There's a sickening lurch, then a giddy fall into disembodiment accompanied by a final, stunned realization that this is, in fact, possible. That he, Starscream, is as capable of dying as anyone.

That's a delusion that Dirge has been guilty of himself. He'd fooled himself into thinking he was safe with Starscream, that the Decepticon Air Commander might be exempt, somehow, untouchable by death. It's hard to imagine his voice falling silent, his limbs settling into final stillness, his vibrant colors fading to gray. But there it is, a death as real and as ordinary as anyone's, and Dirge wishes he could be like everyone else and simply not know.

A soft noise interrupts his thoughts. He draws back his hand, not fast enough, as Starscream's optics open and he gazes at Dirge, not with the anger Dirge would have expected, but with surprise. As if he hadn't expected anyone to be there. Or as if whoever he'd expected wasn't Dirge. 

"What?" Starscream asks. It's not the question that unsettles Dirge so much as the tone of uncertainty in Starscream's voice, as if he has somehow guessed.

"Nothing," Dirge replies automatically. "I cannot seem to get into recharge. That is all."

"Oh?" Starscream raises an optic ridge, and his dark lips curl into the beginnings of a wicked smile. "Did I not wear you out?"

"Perhaps not," Dirge says, and wonders if he should tell him. But telling has never made the least bit of difference, even that one time when Dirge would have given anything, including his life, to prevent the inevitable. 

Starscream's optics flare a little brighter as he shoves the roll-pillow aside and reaches for Dirge, his touch drawing shivers as he trails his fingers along the seam of Dirge's canopy.

"I can fix that," he murmurs, his voice half purr as he pushes Dirge onto his back and nips along the side of his throat, marking cables with his sharp dentae. His weight is solid and warm, emphatically alive, and Dirge can only accede as a reaching hand presses his thighs apart and strokes his panel.

When the time comes, Dirge thinks, he will gather what remains. He will make the preparations as required, offering prayers to the gods that Starscream doesn't believe in. He will light the flame so that Starscream's spark can find its way home to whoever it is he's reaching for now, as the fingers of his free hand thread themselves between Dirge's own.

But that time is not yet. For now he can let himself forget, let himself be touched. The inevitable can wait.


End file.
